Let the Dead Dance
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: Eileen Leahy has returned to Ireland after killing the Banshee that murdered her parents. But it's Hallowe'en, when the barrier between the living and the dead is stretched close to snapping, and there's more to spirits in Ireland than whiskey.


**A/N: Written for the Writers Anonymous Halloween Challenge. This is a one-shot that I'm considering lengthening into a multi-chapter. Contains some mild sexual references, and some swearing. Well, okay, quite a bit of swearing.**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.**

 **All comments are hugely appreciated. Honestly, they make my day.**

* * *

 **Let the Dead Dance**

The pub was a dive, the floorboards worn and sticky with decades' worth of spilled beer, the air dense with noise and sweat. Eileen Leahy sat on a stool at the bar, cloaked in silence. People in masks thronged the pub, dancing and drinking and jostling against her back. And although she couldn't hear the music, she could feel it, pressing against her ear drums and vibrating in the stained wood of the bar.

Strange to be back in Dublin after so long away. Eileen had almost forgotten what Hallowe'en was like in Ireland, how the wild magic was so thick she could almost taste it, mingling with the whiskey on her tongue. And even though the pub was a shithole, the dark amber whiskey was _good,_ tasting of peat and smoky heat.

And while she drank she watched the band in the mirror behind the bar, all sweat and wild Irish rhythm. The skinny, breathless singer said something to the audience, laughing. Too far away for her to read his lips, but in the mirror she saw his gaze dart towards her. He'd been watching her since she'd first come into the pub to escape from the drizzle and the bitter, biting wind. It was going to be a cold winter this year.

The band stumbled off the stage, ceding to a man with a set of uilleann pipes. The raucous crowd settled back to listen, and Eileen turned her attention back to the whiskey, wondering just how she was going to play this.

He made the decision for her.

She smelled him before she saw him. The scent of fresh sweat was like a punch to her gut. She went still, furious at herself for allowing him to sneak up on her. Then she realised his mouth was forming words. As she looked up at him his hand closed on her arm and he jolted, his fingers tightening enough to hurt. Eileen already had her knife in her hand, the blade pressing against his stomach above the low waistband of his jeans, but his eyes were distant, unfocused.

He released her without warning, and stared at her, seeming not to care about the knife pressed against his abdomen. And then he leaned close, and the scent of sweat and sex and magic filled Eileen's lungs.

"I'd heard there was a new hunter in town." His mocking gaze lingered on the knife. Eileen slipped the blade back into its concealed sheath with some reluctance.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"You haven't had the pleasure," he said, holding out his hand. "Owen Byrne." Then he beckoned the bartender over.

"This gobshite bothering you?" the bartender asked Eileen, grinning.

"Ah, get to fuck," Owen shot back. He ordered two whiskies, and sank onto the barstool next to her. He was whippet-thin in skinny jeans and a faded band t-shirt, and he shouldn't have looked like much, unshaven, with a messy tangle of black curls, but there was something about the slouch of his hips, the way his eyes glittered as he watched her.

Funny how much he reminded her of the Winchesters. He had that same light in his eyes. Smiling, but with the promise of danger if you crossed him.

"How did you know what I am?" Eileen asked when the bartender had moved away.

Owen grinned. "Well, now. I wouldn't be much of a psychic if I couldn't tell a hunter when I see one."

"And the knife was a giveaway."

"It was that. Are you not going to tell me your name? I did buy you a drink."

"I don't remember asking you to."

Owen picked up his glass of whiskey, and winked at her. If she was another woman, if this was another life she was living, she might have blushed. "Truth is, I don't need you to tell me your name. I already know who you are, Eileen Leahy."

Her gaze flicked to the mirror, checking instinctively for danger. Nothing more monstrous than the Hallowe'en crowd, lubricating themselves with music and Guinness and whiskey for the night ahead.

"Were you waiting for me?" She slipped her hand into her jacket, brushed her fingers against the blade of her knife for reassurance.

"I wasn't." Owen was fumbling in his pockets, drew out a packet of cigarettes. "Coincidence, that's all. I'm not that good a psychic. I'd like you to think I'm better than I am."

"You don't sound like a very honest psychic," Eileen said.

"No, your man there's right. I am a gobshite. And a liar. You only have to look at me to know I can't be trusted." He slid off the barstool. "And I'm off for a smoke. Care to join me, Eileen?"

* * *

Outside, Owen shaded his cigarette against the wind and driving rain as he lit it. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and goosebumps had risen on his arms. He handed her a cigarette, the reflected flame burning in his eyes as he leaned forward ready to light it. She took the lighter from him, and glanced over it: silver, engraved with a protective sigil powerful enough to make her shiver. She lit her cigarette, then held the lighter for a few moments, unwilling to let it go. He finally plucked it from her hand and pocketed it.

Discomfited, she took a drag of the cigarette. She didn't often smoke, but being back in Ireland made her ache for all her old bad habits. "How did you know who I am?"

His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. "I knew there was a new hunter in town. So the spirits were telling me, anyway, but I didn't know it was you until I touched your arm, and that's the God's honest truth. But a Deaf woman carrying an iron blade? You don't need to be Einstein to do that little piece of mental arithmetic. And I've a calculator on my phone in any case."

She drew the knife, kept it half-concealed inside her jacket. He chuckled.

"I'm not scared of you," he told her.

"Maybe you should be."

"Ah now." He pointed his cigarette at her. "You're forgetting I'm psychic. I know how I die, and it won't be at your hands. And not for a good while yet. I've a few more years left in me. Will you be staying on in Dublin?"

"Are you a witch?"

"I'm a lot of things. I diversify. But I know what you're thinking, and I've no truck with demons. Those black-eyed yokes can all get to fuck. But you didn't answer my question."

"Maybe because it's none of your business."

He raised his cigarette to his lips, his eyes lingering on her. Then he glanced across the road. She followed his gaze, saw a trio of women drifting up the street, grotesque masks warping their faces, silken fabric clinging to their bodies. Literally drifting; their bare feet trailed scant inches above the wet pavement.

Spirits.

She flicked away her cigarette and reached for her blade. Owen caught her wrist. He was standing too close, his body strangely warm despite the biting wind and rain. She could see his mouth moving at the periphery of her vision, and she jerked her gaze around to look up at him. "You've been in America too long," he said.

She turned her head to watch the spirits. The last one, her hair a fiery red tangle of curls, glanced back at them. "Someone should put them to rest."

And although she wasn't looking at Owen's face, his voice echoed in her mind. "Let the dead dance," he told her. "They're not hurting anyone."

She whipped her head around, stared at him in shock. "How the hell did you do that?" she demanded.

He stubbed out his cigarette. "Ah, that's nothing," he said. "Come back inside, and I'll show you what I can _really_ do. Well... some of it, anyway." She felt heat creeping up over her neck. "The rest might have to wait until we're alone."

 _Don't_ , she thought. This wasn't what she came here for. Better not to complicate things.

But he did it again as they went back inside. Held the door open for her, and gently placed his hand on the back of her neck as she passed. She almost stumbled as she heard his voice in her mind: "Don't worry yourself about the spirits. They'll put themselves to rest once the night is done."

She wrenched away. He let the door swing shut behind him. "Why did you come here tonight, Eileen?" he asked.

"For the music and the whiskey."

"Now, the whiskey I can understand. But the music?" He glanced at her. "If you don't mind me asking..."

"Because I'm Deaf?" When he hesitated, she pressed her hand against her chest. "I feel it in here. The vibrations."

"Would you like to hear it for real?"

Her mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"

"I'd have to show you." He raised his eyebrows. "Do you trust me, Eileen?"

"I thought you said I couldn't trust you. Because you're a gobshite and a liar."

"I am," he agreed. His eyes were warm and dark and full of promise. And she wondered what it would be like to take him into her bed, to knot her fingers in his thick dark curls as she came. His grin widened as if he knew the direction her thoughts were taking. "But for some reason people keep trusting me anyway. I tell them not to, but no one ever listens to me."

She laughed and leaned into him. "You try anything I'll kill you."

"Wouldn't that depend on exactly what it was I was going to try? If I was to kiss you, say..."

"Cold iron, Owen Byrne." But she was smiling.

"You're a cruel woman, Eileen Leahy." He drew closer still. "Are you ready? Remember, it'll feel overwhelming at first so try not to stab me or anything."

"I'm ready." She swallowed. He shifted around behind her, and caught hold of her wrists, turning her towards the stage, where the man was playing the pipes. Nothing happened, only Owen's warm breath against the nape of her neck. "It's not..." she began, and then she heard something. A jarring discordant sound, like the scream of the Banshee that killed her parents. She shuddered, tried to wrench away, but she couldn't will her muscles to move.

 _Stupid_. _He told you not to trust him. He–_

And then the sound came into focus: the soft haunting music, the muted hush of the crowd, and Owen's breath behind her. He pressed tight against her back, his lips so close to her neck he might have been kissing her, and, oh God, it was the most beautiful thing she could imagine.

She gave a choked sob when he broke away, snatching the music out of her reach, and dumping her back in the world of silence.

She gasped, twisted towards Owen. "Why did you–" She broke off. He was hunched over, hand pressed to his face. She touched his arm. "Owen?"

He gave a tight smile. "I'll be all right in a moment, so. Just..." He winced, wavered on his feet.

"You don't look all right."

"Told you it was overwhelming," he muttered, and suddenly his legs crumpled. She caught him, eased him back onto a barstool and gestured to the barman for a whiskey. He gave Owen a doubtful look but poured a glass. She pressed it into his hands, and he drank it in one gulp, trembling. "Was it worth it though, Eileen?"

"It was worth it," she told him. "Thank you."

His lips tightened into a smile. "Well, that's something. I'm sorry I couldn't make it last longer." He took a few deep breaths, the colour gradually returning to his skin. "I promise you I'm better at sex."

"Don't you ever stop?"

"That's what my last girlfriend said."

She scoffed, and slapped his chest. "You really are a gobshite."

* * *

Gobshite or not, she left with him.

Out on the streets, Owen slipped his arm around her, sheltering her against the driving rain. Away from the bar, he looked younger, less cocksure, and she felt a sharp pang of remorse, quickly forgotten when they passed something in the street that was neither human nor spirit. A hulking shape that twisted to watch them with gleaming malevolent eyes. The lamplight gleamed on polished bone.

"Owen...?"

"Don't take any notice," he said, and entwined his fingers with hers. "I'll protect you."

She forced a smile.

At the hotel, she sneaked him past the desk, and to her room. Owen kissed her neck hungrily while she unlocked the door and they stumbled inside. As he moved past her, tearing at his clothes, Eileen closed the door, and quietly locked it. She took a breath and turned.

Owen had stopped with his back to her, frozen in the act of tugging his t-shirt over his head. He stared at the sigils she'd scrawled on the walls in pig's blood.

The poor unsuspecting horny bastard.

He stared at her with wide eyes. "Eileen, what the fu–"

He broke off as she advanced into the room, her knife in her hand. He backed away. One hand slipped into the pocket of his jeans, and she felt the prickle of rising magic on the back of her neck. She grabbed him, slammed him against the wall, the blade of her knife against his throat. She jerked his hand from his pocket, and snatched away his lighter, felt the shiver of magic disperse.

He looked genuinely frightened now."I wasn't going to..." he began.

She held up the lighter. "No?"

"Christ! You're the one with a knife to my throat. I wasn't waiting for you, Eileen. I swear!"

"I know." She eased the knife away, stepped away from him. He rubbed his throat, eyeing her warily. "I was waiting for you."

He sagged against the wall. "I should have fecking known. Never trust a hunter." He cast his gaze around the sigils on the wall. "Look, whatever it is you want, I can't help you. I don't work with hunters. Doing that's liable to get a man's guts ripped out and I like my guts where they are."

"Then why did you leave with me?"

He flashed a ghost of a mocking grin. "Ah now, Eileen. That's a stupid question and here I was thinking you were a smart woman. I don't work with hunters. That doesn't mean I'm averse to giving them a ride every now and then. You didn't seem all that averse either, and I'm never wrong about that." He took a measured step towards her. "Forget about the magic, my girl. That way lies darkness and bastards with black eyes. This...?" He cast his hand at the walls. "This is old magic. Dangerous stuff."

She took a breath, pointed the knife at him. "I need you to contact my parents."

"Jaysus." He pushed his fingers up into his hair. "You won't take no for an answer, will you?" She shook her head and he muttered a curse under his breath. "Can I at least get another whiskey?"

"That I can do," she said, and crossed to the dresser. She poured him a generous glass while Owen sank onto the bed, staring in disgust at the bowl and the dagger resting on the covers. He relented a little when she handed him the whiskey. "I'm a dead man," he said, staring mournfully into the glass.

She sat cross-legged on the bed. "As far as anyone is concerned, you've taken me back for sex. That's all they have to know."

"That's true," he admitted. "But see, now, Eileen, to support our story, you know, for true verisimilitude, wouldn't it be better if we did actually..." He saw her expression and sighed. "Your parents, you said? Shit, I'm here now. I might as well. What's Hallowe'en without a little necromancy between friends? But I'm taking the whiskey with me when I leave."

"Seems fair," she said dryly. He shot her a dark look, grimaced as she picked up the ceremonial dagger. Eileen sliced into her palm, clenched her fist and let her blood drip into the bowl. Owen held out his hands.

"Don't break the circle," he told her. "No matter what happens. It's Hallowe'en and there's a lot of dead bastards listening in. Some of them are out tonight for more than just the _craic_." When she didn't answer, he snapped his gaze up. "Do you understand me, Eileen? If you break the circle, you might as well slit both our throats here and now. Say you understand or you can go to hell. I don't care what you do to me."

"I understand."

"Good girl." He sighed. "Is there a reason why this had to happen tonight?"

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Okay. Shit. Okay..." He fell silent, his hands tightening around hers. She waited for him to speak again, but there was nothing but silence and the rising pressure of power prickling over her skin. The air whirled and eddied around her, the cool chill of a breeze kissing her skin where there should have been no breeze. The light overhead flickered, plunging them in and out of darkness. Eileen's breath frosted as the temperature dropped.

Something was watching her.

A woman, a _spirit_ , her face a ragged bloody mess.

Eileen's hunter's instinct screamed at her to wrench free from Owen, to cast a protective circle of salt around them. To break the circle...

She stilled her breathing. Forced herself to stay calm. She was safe with Owen here. More ghosts moved all around her, some fully manifested, others little more then shadows. Owen's hands were so tight on hers it hurt. He shook with the force of the ghosts that crowded around him. They plucked at his hair, pinched and scratched at his exposed skin, raising welts that seeped and bled.

"Oh God," she whispered, starting to pull away.

"No," he snapped, and as well as reading his lips, she heard his voice roaring in her head. She clung on, even as three vicious deep scratches opened up on his cheek. And abruptly, all the ghosts fled. Something loomed over the bed, the hulking shape from the street.

"Don't look at it," Owen said.

And still she couldn't stop herself. Saw the elongated skull of a horse. Bleached bone. A long shaggy body that seemed to dance before her. Teeth that snapped in its jaw. Something impossibly old and ancient, and maybe in America it wouldn't have had power, but here in Dublin? On Hallowe'en, when the barrier between the worlds was stretched close to snapping?

But Owen stayed with her, in her mind and all around her, power surging up through him and into her, unstoppable as the tide, and it made her ache with hunger. And now Eileen was certain that if they both survived this, she would pay her dues and take him into her bed, even if it was just for the night. She wanted to know what he would feel like inside her, whether he was as good as he claimed. She had a feeling he hadn't been lying. Not about that.

Owen drew in a shuddering breath, and dropped his head back in a silent scream. The thing froze and was ripped away as magic wrenched through the room.

And then nothing.

 _It hasn't worked. All that and it hasn't worked._

"Eileen." The voice came from Owen's mouth but it was not his own.

And they were there. Eileen raised her gaze to the two figures that flanked Owen, each with a hand on his shoulder. Her parents.

She blinked away tears. It was a few moments before she could force her trembling voice to speak. "Mam, Dad... I killed the Banshee. It's dead."

"We can't stay long, my darling," her father said. "But we're proud of you. Whether you killed the Banshee or not."

"But—"

Owen's body juddered and shook. Without warning, his hands loosened in hers. At the outskirts of the room, something malevolent raised its head in interest. _No_ , she screamed inwardly, and clung on tight.

"There's something I need from you," she said, stumbling over the words in her haste. Oh Christ, all the trouble she'd gone to and she'd wasted time with _tears_. "My grandfather's legacy. I need–"

Too late. The blood in the bowl flared up, igniting in a sudden flash of white-blue flame and then they were gone. Owen slumped forward, and rolled onto his back, squinted up at her. "Wha' happened?"

"They're gone," she said, numbly. "They're gone and I didn't–"

He bent double, and retched. She stared at him in alarm, as he choked and gagged, hacking something up out of his chest and spat it out onto the bed in a trail of blood-streaked spittle. Then he coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Christ, I hate it when that happens."

She stared at the object he had manifested: a key, solid and old-fashioned, lying on the bed between them, inscribed with the Aquarian Star. _It worked,_ she thought, dizzy with the leftover effects of the magic. She hadn't really believed it would, even knowing how strong a psychic he was, able to manifest objects from the spirit world. But this? A key of iron, with magic of its own? Even for a psychic as powerful as Owen Byrne that should have proved impossible. Or it would have been impossible on any day other than Hallowe'en.

Owen started to reach for the key, then snatched his hand back as if it might burn him. "That's what you were looking for?" he asked, his voice hoarse. She nodded and he closed his eyes. "Holy fecking Jesus." He slipped off the bed, backing away from her. The welts on his cheek looked swollen and sore. If he wasn't careful, they'd get infected. "You're not just a hunter, are you, Eileen?"

"Do you really want to know?"

He rattled at the door handle, then glared back at her. "I don't," he said. "Would you unlock the door, please? I've done what you asked. And I think that key ruptured my bloody spleen." She threw the hotel room key to him. He caught it and slid the key into the lock.

 _Let him go,_ she thought. _You work better alone._

But did she? Her brief taste of working with the Winchesters had reminded her how lonely she was. And Owen Byrne would make a powerful ally.

"You forgot the whiskey," she called out. "And your lighter. You don't want to lose that, do you?"

He wrenched the door open, and for a moment she thought he was going to leave without even looking back. Then his shoulders hunched and he turned back to face her. "You think I'm an eejit?" he said. He jabbed his finger at the key on the bed. "That's the mark of the Men of Letters. But apart from that shower of bastards in England they're all _dead_. Who the hell are you, Eileen Leahy?" He swallowed and when he took a step deeper into the room she knew she had him. "And what in God's name have I got myself into now?"

She grinned. "Why don't you have a glass of whiskey and I'll tell you."

Trembling, he slammed the door.


End file.
